


so i go (but we know i'll see you down the line)

by idekman



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, College AU, Dweebs, Fluff, Multi, ON VA VOIR BITCHES, POV Bucky Barnes, Skinny Steve, Skinny!Steve, Swearing, Train AU, also bucky getting drunk and crying, backpackers au, but that's bcos he's a dweeb not because Sad Things happen, everyone are dweebs, gap year au, grumpy bucky, happy fic, just fluff tbh, peggy is briefly here and is awesome, pre-serum steven, sharing a train compartment au, travelling AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 21:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2166354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idekman/pseuds/idekman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wow, drunk-Bucky is an asshole. </p><p>It's landed him in a fair few fights before, got him kicked out of bars, but this? This is possibly a first. </p><p>He looks closer as Steve - it is Steve, right? - picks out a pencil from behind his ear, deft fingers scribbling something in the margin of his book before he sticks the thing in his mouth, and oh shit - </p><p>Drunk-Bucky isn't just an asshole; he's a total cockblock. </p><p>-</p><p>In which Bucky Barnes accidentally falls in love on a train.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so i go (but we know i'll see you down the line)

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a late birthday present for Aimee - thank youuu for the prompt and also the whole flower bit was her idea (and made me laugh too much). Also thank you to everyone on twitter for helping with Bucky's degree choice.  
> No real warnings but funerals are very briefly mentioned and there's a lot of drinking and swearing.  
> Peggy makes a brief appearance and, of course, totally steals Steve's line.  
> (also my apologies for total bastardisation of basic geography i understand none of the routes/timelines in this fic make sense)  
> 

Bucky just wants a nap.

Like most human beings, he really, genuinely enjoys sleep. He sees it as both a hobby and a skill he's worked on very thoroughly throughout the years.

Considering he's just come from a weekend in London, he hasn't had much opportunity to enjoy his second favourite pastime (second only to, of course, drinking). He'd sort of hoped his journey from London all the way across the channel and down to Italy would be an opportunity for approximately fourteen hours of solid sleep, setting him down in Rome just about ready for yet another night of utter mayhem.

Pushing his sunglasses up his nose - he's got a hangover so utterly invasive he doesn't much fancy his chances without them - he hefts his too-big rucksack a little on his shoulders and half-walks, half-collapses into his compartment.

There's someone already sat there, huddled up into the corner of a seat, nose buried in an enormous book, struggling with its weight somewhat.

'Hey there.'

The voice is surprisingly deep, and Bucky blinks in response; he'd sort of naturally assumed the kid in front of him was a teenager, but there's a line of light stubble across his jaw, something in the way he holds himself suggesting he's older. Bucky's age, maybe.

Bucky grunts in response, slamming his rucksack in the holding rack and slumps down opposite the kid, letting the cool glass of the train compartment's window cool his raging headache. There's a dry burning behind his eyes as he lets them blinker shut, he's fairly sure he fell over several times last night - there's a series of bruises running down his left arm that actually indicated he walked into a particularly aggressive lamp post, but he's trying to ignore the dull ache there - and his mouth tastes like something _died_ in it.

Just as he stifles a yawn behind his hands, the irritatingly chipper voice chirps up again;

'Late night?'

Without even opening his eyes from behind his dark sunglasses, Bucky raises an eyebrow.

'Mmhm.'

'That's cool. Did you enjoy London?'

'Mmhm.'

'Oh - I'm Steve, by the way.'

Shoving his sunglasses down his nose, Bucky studies the scrawny kid sat opposite him. Even with the deep voice - he _can't_ be a day over twenty at best - he looks like a total fucking dweeb, sat there with a dorky grin and his hand outstretched across the table.

Bucky stares down at the hand.

What the hell is he supposed to do with that? _Shake it?_ He doesn't remember the last time someone held a hand out to him that didn't have a drink in it.

And there's a mistake - suddenly his mind's clouded by a blur of vodka and stale beer and he really thinks he might vomit on his lap - or Steve's lap, or out the window, _anywhere_ really - if he doesn't manage to nap off this almighty hangover any time soon.

'Hey, punk,' he starts up sardonically, wondering if the way his stomach flips when Steve's eager smile abruptly fades is guilt or his stomach threatening revolution. He settles for the latter. 'I haven't slept in thirty-six hours. I'm ninety percent sure I'm either still drunk or so hungover I'm essentially a ticking vomit-bomb waiting to go off. So please, _please,_ if we could get through the rest of this fourteen hour journey in _silence_ that would be amazing. Or did you wanna tell me about how much you _heart London?'_

At this point, Steve's gone from looking a little crushed, to lost for words, to offended, all the way to downright pissed off in one go. Also distinctly unimpressed. For a five-four kid who can't be a hundred pounds wet, Steve sure does look pretty terrifying merely in the act of raising one eyebrow at Bucky. The train's rattling along at this point, and a flash of sunshine, broken up by the interrupting flicker of a few grey buildings as they pass out of Waterloo, crosses across the kid's face. It illuminates the blue of his eyes, the pretty plane of his cheekbones, and just as Bucky's resolve is softening, because _damn_ -

'Jerk,' Steve mutters, rolling his eyes and jamming some headphones into his ears, deliberately flicking through his book again and turning up his music obnoxiously loud.

It's some hipster-indie crap that, muffled as it is by the tinny sound of Steve's headphones, even _Bucky's_ never heard of. Rolling his eyes and irritably pushing his sunglasses up his nose, Bucky, in a final act of sort of (pathetic) revenge, stretches out his long legs so his socked feet are jammed right next to Steve's thighs, and settles into sleep, lulled by the gentle rock of the train and Steve's shitty music.

-

He wakes up considerably disorientated.

It's dark out, vague flickers of passing lamps barely doing enough to light the shadowy recesses of Bucky's corner of the compartment. His legs, which at some point during his sleep had slipped under the table, feel cramped and strange, and he's pretty sure he'd fallen asleep at the strangest angle known to man, considering the current ache in his neck. Whilst his head's considerably clearer, the foul taste in his mouth has amplified and, casting about in the dark, he manages to pull a bottle of water and some gum out of his pocket.

There's a scrawny little guy sat across from him; he vaguely remembers talking to him - but he must have been drunker than he'd thought, considering he can't remember a word he said. He's bathed in the warm amber of an overhead light that doesn't reach Bucky's side of the table between them, staring pointedly at a book -

It's a heavy thing, something serious-looking but incomprehensible to Bucky - it's in French, and Bucky's modern language skills stretch to conversational Russian at best - and it jars something in his memory.

It's just as he's reaching across the table to silently offer some gum and the kid looks up at him with blue eyes, dark and huge now in the dim light, that he remembers.

 _Shit_.  
Wow, drunk-Bucky is an _asshole_. It's landed him in a fair few fights before, got him kicked out of bars, but this? This is possibly a first.

(He hopes so, anyway. He'd like to think he's not regularly known for being a dick to friendly fellow passengers on trains.)

He looks closer as Steve - it is Steve, right? - picks out a pencil from behind his ear, deft fingers scribbling something in the margin of his book before he sticks the thing in his _mouth_ , and oh _shit_ -

Drunk-Bucky isn't just an asshole; he's a total _cockblock_.  
He doesn't realise he's still holding his packet of gum out until Steve's glances up. He meets Bucky's stare - at least he tries to, until Bucky realises he's still wearing his sunglasses (and _really? Who wears sunglasses at night, you dickwad?_ ) and hurriedly slips them off. He's going for an imploring, borderline-pathetic look, but Steve simply turns his nose up at the gum and returns his focus to his book, leaving Bucky to awkwardly retract his gum in much the same way Steve had been forced to withdraw his hand after Bucky had so rudely rejected his handshake.

Flicking the lamp on above him, blinking a little at the sudden rush of light, Bucky starts up before his brain can really catch up;

'Hey, man - I'm sorry about earlier, I really am. I didn't mean to be such a douchebag.' He waits, expectantly - but Steve's still totally ignoring him, still staring stoically down at his book, and so he persists determinedly; 'I was really, _really_ hungover - actually, I think I was still a bit drunk, and I know that's no excuse, but drunk-me is a total ass, and - I'm sorry. Basically.' Still silence. His face is burning but he continues; 'Um - yeah. I'm not - I'm not great at talking to people, sometimes. You think I'd be, you know, better when I'm drunk -' he cuts off, manages a weak laugh. Steve doesn't join in. '-But. Yeah. That doesn't happen. But if you wanted to - I don't know. Talk? That would be cool. Great, even. I don't think I can take fourteen hours of _total_ silence -'

Steve finally looks up, spots his mouth moving, eyebrows crinkling together, and pulls one of his tiny ear-buds out of his ear.

'Sorry, did you say something?' Steve asks.

Bucky resists the urge to bang his head against the table. Or get off at the next stop and take a night coach to Rome. Or maybe he could just put an end to his misery and throw himself off the moving train, because even _that_ has to be less painful than the incredibly awkward grave he's dug for himself.

'Um. Hi.' He eventually manages lamely. 'I said hi.' Tentatively, he reaches his hand across the table, outstretched. It doesn't have a drink in it, which feels slightly unnatural, but the warm, soft skin of Steve's palm as he rolls his eyes and leans over to shake it might just make up for it.

'Steve Rogers,' Steve tells him plainly, pulling his other ear-bud out, looking as if he's trying not to laugh at him as Bucky gratefully shakes his hand, perhaps a little over-eager.

'Barnes - Bucky Barnes,' Bucky stutters out (then proceeds to ask God _why_ he chose to put Bucky on this earth only for him to act like a total fucking dweeb in every situation he stumbles into and introduce himself like he's _fucking James Bond.)_

And, alright, Steve's _definitely_ laughing at him now.

'I'm sorry about earlier, by the way,' Bucky starts up awkwardly, his own attempt to distract Steve from his embarrassment utterly backfiring as Steve's skinny shoulders hike up a little further, his slim fingers toying with the pages of his book almost defensively. 'I didn't mean to be a dick, I swear.'

Steve studies him carefully. Bucky feels as if he's being stripped down and taken to pieces with one searching look, as if he's being measured and found wanting - until Steve's small grin lights up his face and he shrugs.

'You were being a dick.'

'I know.'

'A total, _utter_ dick.'  
'I _know_ ,' Bucky groans, burying a bright red face in his hands, only peeking out between his fingers when Steve laughs, the sound clear and light and unfairly _pretty_. Actually, Steve in general is unfairly pretty, even in his hideous _I Heart London_ t-shirt that's two sizes too big and, in the stuffy Parisian heat, hangs off his shoulder a little, revealing a stretch of collarbone Bucky can't will himself to look away from.

Following his gaze - fortunately not too closely - Steve smirks.

'I'll forgive you,' he begins lightly, teasing, that shit-eating grin alone sending Bucky's heart racing; 'if you say you like the t-shirt.'

Steve's pretty cute.

But he's not _that_ cute.

-  
Bucky says he likes the t-shirt.

Of course he does. Somehow, when it comes to Steve, he has the breaking strain of a warm chocolate bar.

He'd shut the compartment window when he'd noticed Steve start to shiver, had handed over the bundled up hoodie he'd been using as a cushion for his head without question, sits sweating an hour later, letting Steve sketch him even as he points out, noisily and obnoxiously, every few minutes, how much he _hates_ being drawn.

'Hey, you're pretty good,' Bucky comments, rising out of his seat to peer nosily over at the notebook Steve's scratching away at as the train jostles them a little and the line of Steve's pencil shifts.

'Stop moving, will you?'

'Sorry.' Bucky settles back in his seat, admonished, watching the fluid movements of Steve's hands - if he's not watching Steve's hands he's watching his eyes, and if he's not watching his eyes he's watching his _mouth_ and - well. In the grand scheme of things, staring at Steve's hands seem to be the safest option. And by 'safest option' Bucky means the route least likely to lead him to getting a boner in a cramped train compartment over some guy he's known for around six hours. Five of which he'd slept through. 'You are really good though. Do you study art or somethin'?'

'Or something,' Steve quips back, not even looking up from his notebook, only glancing up at Bucky's silence. 'Art history,' he explains, looking - yet again - as if he's doing his absolute best to not laugh at Bucky. He'd be furious by now if it weren't for the way Steve's lips quirk up at the corner, eyes lit up with mirth as -

 _Hands_ , Bucky reminds himself, redirecting his gaze and clearing his throat a little.

'How about you?' Steve starts up conversationally, filling in the dark shadows under Bucky's eyes in a fairly unflattering but totally accurate depiction of his hangover. 'You at college still?'

'Yeah, yeah,' Bucky shrugs, shifting awkwardly in his seat. He hates talking about college.

'What's your major?' Steve asks absently, still sketching away, filling in an escaped tendril from Bucky's haphazard bun.

(He's even drawn in the little marks on his nose from sunglasses that, even an hour later, haven't faded. Steve's so cute Bucky thinks he may actually be sick.)

Unfortunately, even the deep, complex levels of Steve's cuteness aren't enough to distract from that question. It's a question he's been asked thousands of times - by girls in bars, by Norwegians in a youth hostel bathroom. Once by some middle-aged creep of a business man in a bar who called himself Pierce and ordered milk like he was in a fucking Stanley Kubrick film - and he's taken to lying about it now.

But, at his too-long pause, Steve sets down his pencil, eyebrow furrowed in interest, the crinkle of his nose letting his huge glasses slip down a little.

There's no way in hell he can lie to that face.

'Um. I major in engineering.'

'Oh, hey, that's interesting -'

'And I minor in ballet.'

Steve's hand, which had been reaching towards his pencil, stills. Or more, it _freezes_. Slowly, he looks up at Bucky, eyes wide with delight.

He should have lied.

'Ballet?'

He really, _really_ should have lied.

'You major in engineering and you minor in... _ballet?'_

'It's not my fault! I _swear_ \- my friend bullied me into it, she's Russian, she's fucking _terrifying_ , have you ever tried to argue with a Russian woman? It's like arguing with a brick wall -'

'Bucky -'

'The physics side helps with the lifts, I swear!'

Steve breaks in, laughing now, reaching out to place a hand over Bucky's arm to still his slightly frenetic movement. It doesn't help the bright red flush blooming across Bucky's face, but Steve's fingers are warm and gentle against the cool skin of his wrist, and he says nothing when Steve doesn't remove them.

'I was kidding,' he insists, shaking his head, blonde hair flopping down over his forehead. 'That's - that's actually pretty cool?'

'Really?' Bucky asks, hoping he sounds less pathetic than he feels. Steve's fingers tighten round his wrist for a moment before letting go and he immediately misses the weight of them, tries not to stare as Steve goes back to sketching.

'Yeah. I wish I could dance, that would be amazing. Or do a sport. Or run. Or, you know, do anything other than walk at a gentle pace without having an asthma attack.'

Bucky hides a chuckle behind his hand, winks when Steve mock-glares up at him before scribbling something at the bottom of his page with a flourish. The sound of tearing paper makes him jump, and there's a moment of horror where Bucky thinks Steve's so dissatisfied with the whole drawing he's torn it up - but then Steve's pushing the piece of paper across the table, grinning a little.

It's amazing. It really is. He's taken a little artistic license in drawing Bucky staring almost peacefully out of the window - but there's a hint of a smirk, the motion of Bucky's constantly tapping fingers (uncomfortable at being stared at for so long) caught in graphite, the frazzled mess of his bun laid to paper almost affectionately. Steve's drawn out the dark shadows under his eyes, the ketchup stain on his t-shirt; it's all there, no liberties taken, down to the careful details of his collar bones, the hollows of his throat.

'This is - jeez, Steve, I can't keep this, it's - hey, you _ass!'_

At the bottom of the page, just above Steve's tiny signature, in terrible chicken scratch, is a title; _the grumpy traveler._

'You're such a little punk, you know that?' Bucky spits out, indignant right up until Steve laughs up at the ceiling of their compartment, baring the narrow lines of his throat and jaw to Bucky.

'Yeah, and you're a jerk - _ow!'_

Kicking Steve under the table was definitely a mistake, because the kid sure can give as good as he gets. They'll both have bruised shins by the time they get to Rome.

-

Bucky had slid over to Steve's side of the table at some point around midnight to share some of the brownies Steve had - inexplicably - baked in a London youth hostel.

Bucky's pretty sure he's half way in love with him at this point. Who _bakes_ in a _youth hostel?_

He hadn't moved back over, he and Steve sharing his headphones, Steve introducing him to indie bands he's pretty sure even _Nat_ hasn't heard of. At some point they'd flicked the lights off, their faces illuminated by the sickly glow of the iPod, Steve shivering a little until Bucky had retrieved a fleece from his rucksack and piled it on top of him.

(At this point Bucky's fucking freezing, but he's not gonna mention that.)

They naturally take to murmuring to each other, the dark and the late hours inspiring an odd, comfortable familiarity as Steve hugs his knees to his chest and they swap stories about funerals and shitty dads.

It's not until the battery on Steve's iPod dies - and forget the baking, is if that wasn't weird enough, who still uses a fucking _iPod?_ _Fucking hipsters, that's who_ \- that he realises Steve's dropped off. He's so small Bucky had barely noticed the weight leaning against him, a warm presence at his side. He looks young in the dim, barely-there light, skin pale and eyebrows pulled together as his breaths, deep and even, play out across Bucky's neck.

He looks cold.

What's one friend putting his arm around another friend's shoulder to keep them warm? It's not _cuddling_ , Bucky reassures himself, even as Steve sleepily wraps his arm around his waist and grumbles into his collarbone.

Alright. It's definitely cuddling.

(But what's a little snuggling between friends?)

-

He's woken up by Steve's hand tight on his shoulder.

The train's stopped, and for a moment he thinks they've arrived.

Something sinks, heavy in his chest, as he realises that Rome means getting off the train, and getting off the train means saying goodbye to Steve, and saying good bye to Steve means -

But he looks out, sees a sign in Swiss-German, lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding in. It's an early, dawn light that fills the compartment through the crack in the curtains as Steve practically scrabbles over his lap.

'Steve?' He slurs out, still half-asleep as Steve shoves himself up against the compartment door, ear pressed to the wood there. 'What the hell's goin' on?'

'Shh!' Steve snaps, flapping a hand at Bucky. As Bucky strains his ears, he can pick up what must have woken Steve up; the sound of two people arguing, noisily in French. The more he focuses the more he wakes up, and the louder it gets.

'A man and a woman - they're arguing. I think -' Steve breaks off, chewing at his lip, before rearing back and scowling. 'Fucking _asshole_ piece of _shit_ \- '

The compartment door slams shut.

Bucky blinks sleep out of his eyes, stares at the space where Steve had been approximately half a second ago.

Just as he's wondering if Steve's entire existence had been some weird fever dream, he hears a familiar voice a little way down the corridor. Someone jabbering away in french, a barely-there american accent, loud - too loud for this time of morning -

They sound _mad_.

He bursts out into the corridor and immediately reads the situation that Steve had been able to decipher from the garbled French he'd heard through the door.

A girl, hastily shrugging into the hoodie - _Bucky's hoodie_ \- that Steve had been wearing, glaring up at the six foot four skinhead who's currently staring down at Steve, somewhat incredulously. Bucky can't work out a word the boy's saying but he's furious, gesturing wildly at the girl and then the man in front of him, edging closer and closer into his space.

It doesn't take a lot for the guy to decide he's had enough and, closing the space between himself and Steve, jostling the girl caught in the middle of it as he goes, gives Steve an angry shove.

And if Bucky thought Steve had been pissed before, it's nothing compared to the whirlwind that's in front of him now, switching between French and English, shoving the man - who's got to be twice his size at least - right back, still jabbering away in French.

Bucky's edging forward, ready to intercede; he's not sure he could take the giant who looks just about ready to tear Steve's head off, and he's not going to be able to diffuse the situation when he doesn't speak a word of French but he might at least be able to diffuse _Steve_.

'Hey, come on now -'

'You wanna go? _You wanna fucking go? Huh? I'll go! I'll fucking go right here, dick!'_

There's a jabber in French from the taller guy, a fist is raised and Steve's screaming something that sounds a lot like _on va voir, bitch!_ when the girl leaps between the two men, fist flying, and, in an even more unlikely moment than Steve being able to take the giant in a fight, punches him so hard he hits the floor, out cold.

There's a tense moment of silence. Steve's breathing heavily, glaring down at the enormous Frenchman. Bucky's staring somewhat incredulously at the girl, who flicks a perfectly-coiffed curl out of her eye and unzips Bucky's hoodie, handing it back to Steve with a polite smile.

'Gentleman, I thank you, but I believe I had him on the ropes.' She looks between the two boys, eyes dark but bright, and flashes a disarming smile as she sticks her hand out at Steve. 'Peggy Carter. Nice to meet you.'

 

 

After they drag the unconscious Frenchman back into his compartment and see Peggy safely onto the platform - who kisses Steve on the cheek and slips her number into his pocket, all whilst Bucky fumes jealously in the background (right up until Peggy _winks_ at him and _damn_ some dames are fucking perceptive) - Steve goes to fetch breakfast as the train idles on the platform. Bucky's left kicking a stone about, hands shoved in his pockets, wandering around the small, countryside station. Making his way through about half a pack of cigarettes in one go - he's not allowed to smoke on the train and even if he was, he wouldn't dare. Steve's lungs wouldn't be able to take it and _shit_ he's in far too deep - he wanders the length of the station, taking in the bright flowers growing in flower pots -

He comes to a stop at one particularly large pot, frowning down at the flowers.

Bucky Barnes doesn't usually have a lot of time for sentiment. He's a practical creature, lives alone, doesn't really talk to anyone in his classes, spends most of his time studying or drinking. He has one whole friend, and he's not even a hundred percent sure she actually _likes_ him. He doesn't remember to send people birthday cards and he doesn't call his sister as often as he should -

But Steve Rogers?

Steve Rogers is a whole other fucking ballpark.

He tries not to think too hard about his motives as he carefully plucks a few of the bright blue flowers from their pot and carefully puts them into the pocket of his jacket. So what if the blue of the petals exactly match the colour of Steve's eyes? What's a little flower giving between friends? Totally hetero. No homo here, just a gift between pals -

Steve reappears hanging out of the train all of a sudden, waving and hollering just as the train beginning to move. Darting across the platform, Bucky all but leaps back onto the train, letting Steve catch him, the two of them practically falling across the narrow corridor of the train until Steve's leaning against the wall, Bucky's body bracketing his, their faces a touch too close as Steve laughs breathlessly.

What's a little romantic staring into each other's eyes between friends?

( _Shit_ , Bucky, thinks, when Steve playfully pushes him away, grumbling _jerk_ and dragging him down the corridor by his wrist back to the compartment. Bucky follows. Of course he does.)

-

'Hey,' Bucky starts up halfway through their third card game. The scenery outside is beautiful and Steve had seemed determined to sketch their surroundings, but there was only so much of staring at mountains Bucky and his ADHD could handle, so they'd played three rounds of gin rummy - a massively exciting concept until Steve had explained the game involved neither gin or rum - and are now on poker. Steve's amazing at both. Bucky, of course, is terrible, but he knows all sorts of fancy tricks he'd learned rather than studying for his finals, so Steve lets him shuffle.

When he doesn't continue from his opening greeting, Steve raises an eyebrow.

'Hey,' Steve eventually shoots back, nudging him with his foot under the table. He wonders what Steve would do if he tracked his foot up his leg, up his thigh. It would be so easy here; Steve would probably blush, pretty and pink -

' _Flowers_ ,' Bucky blurts out, desperate to get himself off his current, dangerous train of thought.

'What about them?' Steve asks idly, only looking up when he hears Bucky's cards slap down on the table. 'I _knew_ you were bluffing, you dickhead -'

'I - um - I -' Bucky breaks off, laying down the now seriously-crumpled, virtually flattened, bright blue flowers on the table. A few stray petals flutter down with his frenetic movement, one sticking in his hair.

'Um.'

'Right. Yeah. Flowers. I - I saw these, and I thought of you, and - um. Yeah.'

There's a very long silence. Steve is still staring down at the flowers, his face contorting into various measures of confusion as Bucky flushes more and more red, wishing he could sink into his seat until he disappeared. At this point, he's fairly sure playing footsie under the table would have been the safer option.

'B-because,' he forces out, when Steve still hasn't spoken, 'they're - well, they're blue, and so are your - you know -'

'Eyes. Right. Got it,' Steve manages, dipping his head in a cautious nod. Carefully, he picks one up. Watches it wilt in his hand.

Bucky's pretty sure the entire train can hear his heart thudding. His palms are slick with sweat and he buries them in his lap under his table.

'I - uh. I don't have a vase.'

Steve still sounds confused. Bucky doesn't blame him.

'Right.'

'Actually, I have - I have pretty serious pollen allergies. So, um -'

'Oh. Oh! God, sorry Steve, I didn't think - here, look -'

Bucky snatches up the flowers and, pulling the window open, throws the flowers out hastily, just as they pull up to a busy platform. As Steve watches, the flowers hit someone dragging a heavy suitcase behind them in the face.

'I mean - I was just gonna take an anti-histamine, but okay.'

There's a queasy pause as Steve gathers up his cards, clicking them together with his neat hands and carefully pushing them back into the box. He seems - other than a little bemused - utterly un-phased by the situation.

There's an odd, bitter taste in Bucky's mouth. His throat feels tight. He thinks this might be disappointment.

'Steve,' he starts up before his brain can stop him.

'Bucky,' Steve shoots back, totally oblivious as he carefully unzips his rucksack to pack his cards away.

'Steve, I -'

'Oh, hey, are we in Bern! Jeez, that was fast. Alright, well I guess I'll see you around, huh?'

Bucky's breath catches in his throat as he stares up at Steve - who's standing now, hoisting his enormous rucksack onto his shoulders and heading towards the doors.

'What?' He manages. It's enough to make Steve pause, glancing over his shoulder.

'Didn't I tell you? I'm staying in Switzerland for a few days. Got some family who live here, so I'm gonna kip on their floor for a while. But have fun in Rome, alright?' He's already turning towards the door, and Bucky wants to force out something - a goodbye, maybe - but his head aches and his words are all tangled up, heavy on his tongue.

It's ridiculous, he knows it. That he's become infatuated with some little punk he met on a train for a few hours - but he's not -

It's not _fair_. He's had enough of saying his fucking good byes to people.

Steve must read something in the crease of his forehead, his tight jaw - because the light, easy grin that seems to permanently grace Steve's face dissipates, and he takes a step forward, confusion and perhaps a little more understanding than Steve wants to admit.

Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on Bucky's part.

'Buck,' Steve starts up, the name a sigh on his breath - until the hum of the engine coming back to life rumbles under their feet and Steve swears under his breath, shaking his head. 'Shit - I really have to go - I -' for once, Steve is the one lost for words, Bucky silent, watching him cautiously.

'It was nice meeting you,' Bucky manages, voice quiet. Maybe a little cracked. Steve ducks his head, lets those long, familiar fingers play with the door handle for a moment before finally nodding, blue eyes bright and sincere as he meets Bucky's gaze.

'It was nice to meet you too, Bucky.'

And then he's gone.

 

 

At the next station, Bucky buys a bottle of vodka and drinks his way through Switzerland.

 

 

He sort of forgets he'd said he'd meet Nat on the train in Milan until she knocks on his compartment door.

'What?' He snaps, bottle of vodka in one hand, abandoned chocolate brownie in the other.

There's people stood behind Nat. He would care, but neither of them are Steve, so he doesn't. He sort of wants to slam the door in their faces.

'I rang you four fucking times, James - have you been _drinking_? Christ. It stinks of fucking smoke in here, too,' Nat snaps, barrelling past him and shoving her backpack up into the hold. She looks perfect in a way no backpackers should, red lips pulled until a worried frown as Bucky slumps down into his seat, legs stretched out in a way that suggests he is not, at any point, willing to share his side of the compartment.

'Is that a pot brownie?' A voice pipes up hopefully from the doorway. A voice that sets his teeth on edge. Narrowing his eyes through the haze of alcohol, he glares at the two men in the doorway - one tall and slim, the other short, stocky, and irritatingly familiar.

Stuffing the entire brownie in his mouth, chewing his way round it as he continues to glare at the figures in the door, he eventually turns to Nat, already looking far too settled in Steve's - in _the_ seat. Just a seat. A seat that Steve happened to occupy for a short amount of time before he pissed off to fucking _Bern_ -

'Who's Steve?' Barton asks nosily, settling in next to Nat, leaving the other man with them the choice of trying to squeeze in next to Nat and her sort-of, on-again-off-again, dysfunctional twat of a boyfriend, or getting Bucky to move his legs. Neither option is particularly appealing.

'Barton,' Bucky starts up, pointedly not looking Clint's way. 'You brought fucking _Barton_ with you? Barton.' He pauses, stares up at the ceiling, pinches the bridge of his nose. ' _Barton_ -'

'You like Barton,' Nat states simply, as if that's that. 

'No I don't. I really _fucking_ don't. You gonna sit down, pal, or are you just gonna fucking hover in the doorway for the next three and a half hours?'

'James, this is Sam. Sam, this is James. He prefers Bucky.'

Warily, Sam folds into the seat opposite Bucky, squeezing Clint between the two of them - _good_ , he thinks bitterly - and studies Bucky carefully.

'I'm sorry, but he does _not_ look like a ballerina,' Sam eventually comments, before tentatively holding a hand out for Bucky to shake. 'No offence. Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you, man.'

Bucky looks down at the hand stretching across the table. He looks at the three people who are very much _not-Steve_ sat opposite him.

Then he vomits on the table.

-

_**Text from: Sam W.** _

_**Hey buddy. Do you know a hobo ballerina with an alcohol problem?** _

_Text to: Sam W._

_What?_

_Text to: Sam W._

_Oh, you mean Bucky?_

**_Text from: Sam W._ **

**_Right. Bucky. Just met him on a train in Milan. Don't suppose you're heading to Italy any time soon?_ **

_Text to: Sam W._

_Wasn't planning on it. Why?_

**_Text from: Sam W._ **

**_Pretty sure he just got insanely drunk and cried into his friend's lap about you for a three and a half hour journey._ **

**_Text from: Sam W._ **

**_Also he threw up on me. Twice._ **

_Text to: Sam W._

_Just buying my ticket. I'm on my way._

_-_  
Rome's fucking awful.

It's too hot and there's too many people, he's never been this hungover in his life - except maybe yesterday - and he's going to take the fake bow and arrow Barton bought at the train station and shove them up his ass if he doesn't stop fucking shooting those dumbass arrows at him.

The food's alright, though.

They've been camped out in this cafe for at least an hour - Sam's insisted they stay there to wait for the lunch menu to come in, which is suspicious as fuck, but Bucky's too busy trying to deal with his hangover and consume as much pancakes as humanly possible to really think too hard about it - when Sam's phone chirps noisily with a text.

'Dude, fucking turn that off,' Bucky grumbles into his coffee.

'Sorry - my friend's in Rome at the moment. He said he'll meet us here.'

'Fan-fucking-tastic,' Bucky snaps, not noticing the way Sam smirks into his glass of water, a little occupied with the way Nat's just smacked him upside the head.

'James Buchanan Barnes I swear to god if you don't stop fucking moping I'm going to set you on fire while you -' she breaks off, spotting something over his shoulder that Bucky can't be fucked to turn around and look at, before shooting a quizzical look Sam's way. 

There's some sort of three way silent conversation going on between Barton, Nat and Sam, which Bucky doesn't care about because he reckons if he shoves all the pancakes currently stacked on his fork into his mouth they'll choke him to death and put himself out of his misery.

He's just testing his theory when a very familiar voice calls out,

'Bucky?' 

He twists wildly even as Sam's raising a hand in greeting - and there he is, that fucking little _punk_ , looking all fucking bathed in sunlight and shitting _glorious_ and he sort of wants to throw up (again) because he's fairly sure he looks like he got ridiculously drunk on a train and vomited a lot.

Because that's what he did.

He sort of forgets that, fortunately, when Steve bounds up to him, unable to keep that infectious grin off of his face, holding something behind his back as he walks.

'Steve,' he breathes out - except his mouth is still full of pancake, so it sounds more like _Schvthe_. 'What - what are you doing here?'

Steve shrugs, abruptly bashful - and he's already sunburnt ( _fucking idiot_ , Bucky muses fondly), the bridge of his nose and cheekbones pink and flushed with heat - scratching at the back of his neck anxiously.

'It was raining in Switzerland. I heard the weather's good in Rome this time of year.' Steve blinks down at the floor, takes a step to the now-closer Bucky, twists his face up into an almost-smile. Bucky wants to kiss it off him, but resists the urge, his hand stuttering in an aborted movement until Steve reaches out and laces his fingers up in Bucky's. 'I brought flowers,' Steve tells him quietly. His gaze is rarely serious, even as he holds out a handful of red roses to Bucky, the flowers almost crushed between their chests. 'How about we go get some lunch?'

Bucky glances back at the table where Nat sits, flanked by Sam and Clint. Nat and Sam look smugly pleased with themselves, Nat winking when Bucky meets her gaze - Clint looks bored. That's sort of his resting face. He ignores the near-empty plate of pancakes and looks back to Steve.

'Like - like a date?' He asks cautiously, allowing himself a smile when Steve gestures with the flowers.

'Like a date,' Steve confirms.

'I think I can do lunch.'

They walk away, hands still linked, Bucky burying his nose in the flowers for a moment so Steve doesn't notice how bright red his face is (Steve notices anyway). Steve squeezes his fingers, grins up at Bucky, reaches up to tuck a tendril of loose hair behind his ear as they walk.

'You look like a fucking wreck,' Steve comments, just as they're about to get lost in the crowds.

'Punk.'

'Jerk.'

There's a pause, and then, from behind them;

'That was the fucking sweetest thing I've ever seen. I think I'm gonna be sick.'

Bucky raises his eyes to the sky. It's bright blue, cloudless, the sun high in the sky. It couldn't be a more perfect day.

'I fucking hate Barton.'

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! come say hi on twitter @peedonthefloor or on tumblr at whambamsebastianstan.tumblr.com


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